


Savile Row, 1969

by LoreMcLeWi



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1969, Break Up, F/M, Rooftop Concert (The Beatles), The Beatles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoreMcLeWi/pseuds/LoreMcLeWi
Summary: A short story - Some devastating news just before history is made.





	Savile Row, 1969

“I don’t understand” I said softly, not once looking up from my tea.  
“I don’t either, that’s the point.” He stirred his coffee gently, trying hard not to make any noise. “These last three weeks have been insane Lorelai; I just can’t live like this.”  
“That’s not fair.” I mumbled.  
“What’s not fair? That I never know how you’re going to act when you come home? That you change your mood and your mind every twenty minutes? Is it fair that some days you’ll come home and be all over me, and other days you won’t let me touch you at all, and there’s absolutely no warning at all?”

I knew this was coming. It had been coming for a while. What I didn’t realise was today would be the day. I was buzzing, really excited, when James called me at the office and asked if I’d like to meet him at a little café on Savile Row for our lunch hour, but as soon as I saw his face when I walked in, the pit of my stomach dropped and my throat turned to cold stone. It was his eyes that gave it away.

“It’s not fair James. I can’t control it. I don’t even know what’s going on half the time. It’s exhausting! I’m not in control of this!”  
“How long have you been seeing that therapist for?”  
“Does it matter?” I finally look up from my cup, a single tear rolling down my flustered cheek.  
“Yes it does. You really should have a hold of it by now.” His eyes met mine. They flamed with frustration. “Have you deliberately stopped taking the medication or something?”  
“You know I haven’t.” I crossed my arms, the anger in my chest rising and bubbling in my throat. “You know I take the damn things every day even though they make me ill.”  
“Don’t make a scene.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.  
“Make a scene? Jesus, James. Did you really think you could drop this bombshell on me in a public place and expect me not to react?”  
“Any other person would be able to hold themselves together”  
I sat back in my chair and wiped my cheek, biting my lip so hard I started to taste that familiar metallic tang. “Where am I supposed to go?”  
“I don’t know Lore. Go back to your parents. They’ll take you back in.”  
“Oh great, so you’ve really thought this through. What about work? How am I supposed to work in the middle of London and live with my parents in Aberdeen?”  
“Well maybe you’ll have to find your own place then?”  
“With what money? James, the last pay check I got, I spent mostly on fixing up our kitchen!”  
“My kitchen.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Well it’s my kitchen isn’t it? It’s my apartment.” He shrugged.

My arms fell limply by my side, I just stared at him. There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to scream at him, to explain that he didn’t understand how hard things were for me. He could never understand what its like to not be in control of yourself, to be so aware of your every move, every breath, wondering if you’re talking and acting normally, if you’re thinking is logical and reasonable, never being sure. Not knowing the difference between happy and manic. Not being able to tell if the sadness you’re feeling is proportionate to the situation. People constantly telling you ‘you’re overreacting’ but not being able to moderate your own behaviour. The years and years of therapy, the medications, the hospital visits. The literal blood, sweat and tears. I also wanted to beg. To promise that I would change and that I would try harder. Anything to stay with him. Anything to not be alone.

“James, please.” My voice was smaller than I remember it ever being. “Please don’t give up on me.”  
He closed his eyes and his eyebrows furrowed.  
“Please, James. You know I’m trying to be better.” I placed my hand out open on the table top. “I’m trying, please don’t give up on me now.”  
After a silent eternity, he dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a £5 note and put it on the table next to my open hand. “I’m staying at a friends place for the next few days. Don’t call me.”

I watched, wide eyed and breathless as he stood up, put his coat on and walked out into the busy street. I was to in shock to cry, to confused to breathe, all I could do was sit and stare at the lunchtime crowd outside the café door.  
Eventually I stood up, still numb and in a daze. I wiped my eyes, pulled down my skirt and put on my coat. It was only when I opened the door and the cold January air hit my face that I took a breath. People swarmed around me, as I spun around trying to find James in the crowd. I was a rock in the stream, being pushed and knocked by the flood of people around me. I quickly forced myself against the wall and stood there, trying to fade into the stonework.

Suddenly from above, a distant guitar chord rang out, followed by another. It seemed to get louder and louder, and sounded somewhat familiar. I looked around, trying to see where the noise was coming from. An upbeat song started playing on the distant breeze. Other people on the street were also looking around confused, trying to locate the source of the noise. A businessman with glasses and a briefcase on the other side of the road shaded his eyes as he looked up towards the rooftops, the smiled and nudged his friend next to him. They both squinted up at the roof of the building and started smiling and tapping their feet. A group of three fashionably dressed girls also stopped and looked up, then dissolved into frantic whispers and gasps.  
“Could it be?”  
“Surely not.”  
“It sounds like them though, doesn’t it?”  
“Yes, I suppose so, it could be. I thought they broke up though! That’s what it said in the magazines.”

I crossed the street and stood next to the slowly but steadily forming cluster of people, all looking and pointing at the skyline with a mixture of joy and confusion.  
“Do you think maybe it’s a new album?”  
“Maybe! How groovy would that be! A brand-new Beatles album!”  
My eyes widened and I stood on my toes, desperately wishing I was taller, or that I had access to a rooftop. I’d been a fan of The Beatles ever since my mother bought me the ‘With The Beatles’ album for Christmas in 1964 when I was 17. Actually, to call myself a fan would be a lie; to call me a Beatlemanic was probably more accurate. I had spent my late teenage years and my early adulthood listening to them, buying all the albums, plastering my walls with posters and memorabilia; much to my father’s disgust. Their music had been the soundtrack to my early adult life. James and I had danced to ‘Rock And Roll Music’ at one of the first dance halls that we went to together, I had cried to ‘Yesterday’ when my beloved terrier passed away, I had begged my parents for money to go and see the ‘Help’ movie when it finally came out in theatres in my hometown, ‘Norwegian Wood’ was playing softly in the background when James and I had our first drink after moving in together, my best friend Lillian and I drunkenly sung along with Ringo to ‘Yellow Submarine’ in the back of my father’s car on the way home from a party; The Beatles and their music was interwoven with some of the most important events of my life. They seemed to be able to express the emotions that I couldn’t, say the words that I couldn’t bring myself to say, they were a joy and a comfort in good times and bad. 

Only when the music stopped did I realise I was smiling. For the length of one song I had forgotten that my life felt like it was falling apart. For the briefest of moments, I was snapped back in a wave of happy nostalgia, and everything seemed okay. The crowd was spilling out onto the road now causing motorists to sound their horns in frustration and peer out of their windows trying to see what all the fuss was about. People seemed bewildered, but clapped and smiled, looked up to the rooftop and tapped their feet when the music started up once more. I didn’t know what the future held for me. I didn’t know what I was going to do. My life was up in the air and made no sense. There was only one thing I did know. I knew that whatever happened, I had my music to turn to. This impromptu jam session atop a roof in London didn’t change anything, but it altered everything.

The police started ushering everyone away and dispersing the crowd. I looked at my watch and realised that my lunch break was all but over and I’d need to run to get back to my office on time, but the small glowing ball of excitement inside of me didn’t extinguish. I had witnessed history, and I knew that with a little help from my friends, I could make it through.


End file.
